


Stillborn

by TheGuitarPerson



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Gen, If You Squint - Freeform, Psychological Torture, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-10 18:14:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19910053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGuitarPerson/pseuds/TheGuitarPerson
Summary: The feelings I once felt are now dead and goneI've waited here for you for so very longSo emptyJust a shell of a manStillborn, this I understandNelo Angelo remembers.





	Stillborn

It only took a decade, but you have everything you’ve ever wanted.

There something vaguely funny about the whole concept of desire.

Once something not only is in your grasp, but now an irreplaceable part of your being, you can’t help but just be a _smidge_ disappointed.

You wanted power. Might makes right in this cruel world after all, and you knew you held in your blood the capability of savagely re-creating this world in your image – cleansed, efficient, ruthless to the weak.

A world where weakness would never again cause pain.

And Mundus has given that power to you, beyond your wildest dreams, and more. For he is, of course, a generous god.

If only it weren’t so hard to look in the mirror. You were arrogant, weren’t you? A mere whelp challenging a force of nature, an ant burning in the sun.

You’re grateful for the armor your Lord and Master gave you because it shrouds you and your blue (now red) eyes and pallid skin. You see _his_ face in every puddle of blood and it is enough to make you beg for death in weaker moments, but of course, you _are_ dead and peace will never be found.

The Master (it kills you secretly, every time you unconsciously refer to him as such in your thoughts) is equal parts pragmatic and vindictive.

You possess Sparda’s blood after all – you are a weapon capable of such astounding destruction that it was common sense to make use of you.

It’s what _you’d_ do, you think in some blurry remembrance of humor.

Mundus spends what must be years torturing you, molding your atrophied soul into a terrifying wraith of war and violence.

Fire and brimstone won’t do, he says, not for such an occasion.

He does unspeakable things to your mind and body, tears at wounds you long thought had scarified, until you were drained.

As your heart is burned away, in those dark, shameful moments, you think of your other half. You wonder if he feels your pain somehow, if he feels vindicated in you suffering for your foolishness.

That’s what you are, you’ve come to realize. A foolish boy.

The power your Liege gives you is beyond anything you’ve imagined but at the cost of your free will, your senses, your ability to feel anything, much less the thrill of the fight.

You’ve become a warrior feared in all nine circles; you slaughter scores, armies, legions of those who dare oppose your lord. Your name spoken is death inevitable.

The Black Angel. Mundus’ Sword. The Fallen Son.

And how the mighty have fallen indeed, you think; a Son of Sparda, now the most feared puppet in Hades, a corpse decaying under layers of unholy iron.

Its years before your Lord commands you to the surface, to breathe the same air as the cattle once again. He plans to make his move, to destroy and rebuild, a world made of wickedness and fear.

A world that has no place for even a drop of Sparda’s blood.

You lie in wait inside the womb of the being your Master has called to life, masquerading as a ruined castle.

Brick and bone, cement and sinew combine to create an abomination, a portal for all beings shunned by God.

And in all of this preparation, Mundus makes time for yet more personalized suffering for his favorite trophy.

He creates his bait meticulously, plucking and ripping at your memories of _Her_ for just the right shade of blonde for its hair, crafting wretched green eyes and milky complexion.

You almost kill it on the spot, your mind ablaze with phantom remnants of an emotion you once knew as anger. How dare it exist, how dare it look exactly like her.

“ _Do you like it, Angel? Is it exactly as you remembered?”_

You bite your tongue, lest risk grievous punishment. He proceeds to dress it like a harlot, and breathes life into it.

He prepares his trap. You lie in wait, a strange sensation, vestigial emotions swirling in your being.

When he arrives, you almost fail to recognize him. It could be the astounding growth in power, or just the years of torture and servitude you have suffered that tore all semblance of humanity from you.

Against all odds, you _see_ him, the man he has become. Something very much like shame fills you once more, wondering what he would think when he sees what has become of you.

You watch him lay waste to all of Mundus’ soldiers.

Fearless. So incredibly _strong_.

A few of your lord’s generals recognize him, or rather, the legacy he carries. They balk in fear, gnashing their teeth in awe of his might.

He is a cataclysmic event, a storm leaving nothingness in his wake, a plague sent for naught but to destroy.

Were you still capable of such emotion, you imagine envy filling your entire being.

And pride. Or something like it, you really can’t remember anymore.

Clarity comes to what remains of your mind in a few broken splinters.

You remember that one night, the longest night. When the two of you murdered each other for the last time, hollowing out both of you in many ways other than through your nigh-invulnerable flesh.

You remember falling and thinking that power wasn’t what mattered to you.

What mattered to you -- you’ve betrayed, you’ve hurt, you’ve left behind.

You approach him with a grand entrance, using a mirror’s reflection. He’d appreciate your attempt at levity, you’re sure.

The moment you cross blades, a sense of joy so overwhelming threatens to consume you. Each nerve ending, frayed from years of abuse, comes back to life, filling all your empty spaces with equal parts pain and longing.

“ _Well, this is the last place I’d expect to find someone with some guts._ ”

The words slice through you, more hurtful than any knife forged by human or demon hands. Of course he’s moved on. Did you expect him to pine for you forever?

But he’s here at least – the only one capable of bringing an end to your pain, your suffering, your eternal damnation.

And in your anguish, you smile.

A final battle.

A final reunion.

A final goodbye.


End file.
